


Death is a Star

by Hallow_fiend



Category: The Lost Boys (Movies)
Genre: Blood Drinking, Bloodlust, Canon-Typical Violence, David enjoys a good inside joke, David has a little bit more self control, Halfling mechanics are a little different than the movie, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Michael has a lot more angst, Oldest-Child Syndrome, Recreational Drug Use, Vampire blood withdrawls, Vampires, unsafe ear piercing, vampirism is cheaper than therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:34:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26776705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hallow_fiend/pseuds/Hallow_fiend
Summary: Michael is having a rough time after the move to Santa Carla. His brother's driving him nuts, his grandpa is actually crazy, and his mom expects him to be mature about everything. After it all gets to be too much one night, he ends up making some new friends who seem to have some interesting ideas on how to let off steam.
Relationships: David/Michael Emerson (Lost Boys)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 87





	1. Leaving

**Author's Note:**

> Happy October everyone  
> Sorry if there are any typos or messy parts I will be cleaning this up as I go. Comments are loved and appreciated as are messages <3

Michael shoves a last pair of sweats and another dress shirt he’d probably never wear into his already overstuffed duffle and tries to swallow back the dread welling in the pit of his stomach. This was it. He gives the shelves of books, baseball trophies, and knick knacks that didn’t make the cut one last look. Shit, there’s probably no chance his old man would mail him any of this. Definitely won’t be coming back for it either. He flicks at the suncatcher in his window and watches it split the Arizona sun into rainbows for the last time.

“Mike come on. We gotta go, mom doesn’t want to deal with him going nuclear on us if he comes back early.” Sam shouts as he barrels into the room. Between the flip down shades and the technicolor button up his brother looks set for a weekend vacation instead of the twelve-hour drive ahead of them. Something about his getup makes a muscle in his jaw tense.

“Yeah, sorry. I just needed a minute.” Michael grinds his knuckle into Sam’s hair as he throws the duffle over his shoulder. The two of them make their way to the waiting car where mom’s already nervously tapping on the wheel.

“What was all that about.” Sam

“None of your business, ok?” He grunts forcing his bag into the trunk.

Sam stops ruffling Nanook’s ears to raise both hands in surrender. “Alright, touchy.”

“All set?” Mom leans through the window.

“Looks like it.” He slams the trunk and makes a move to slide into the front seat, but he’s cut off. Sam dives for it and sticks his tongue out as he buckles himself in.

“No freakin way are you getting shotgun, you little weasel,” Michael tugs at his brother’s tacky shirt, half pulling him from the Toyota.

“Michael leave your brother alone. I don’t want this whole thing to start with another fight.” Lucy’s voice is high and pleading, and there’s little choice but to let the asswipe go with the squeal of the retracting seatbelt.

“Sorry, mom.” He offers sheepishly, even as he gives Sam’s seat a not so covert kick. She pretends not to notice.

“This is a fresh start for us, boys. Let’s try our best to leave all the negativity here.” Lucy’s eyes go back to their usual softness, as she pushes an errant lock of hair behind Sam’s ear. Whatever tension had gathered between her sons fizzled away as they pull away from the house and head for the interstate.

Things settle into a rhythm between the three of them like they always did. Mom makes hopeful declarations about the future ahead of them. Sam pulls at Michael’s curls while she isn't looking. And between swatting at the little shit, Mike focuses on the setting sun painting the desert and tries to make his mind go blank. The more Phoenix disappears in the rearview the more Michael feels something dark and resentful gather in his chest. Sure, he was as glad to have that asshole out of his life as they were, but this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. In those welcome intervals when dad was away and Sam was asleep upstairs, he and mom had hammered out a plan. Things had been bad for months then, and they agreed they’d both save up for a few months, with the understanding being they’d rent a little apartment in Tuscon, and Mike could ride baseball to a decent college. It seemed solid, and Michael had happily stocked shelves and swept floors at the Circle K for those three weeks before everything fell to shit. Nine days later and here they are fleeing the state at breakneck speed, leaving everything to live with a grandfather he and Sam had never even met. It crosses his mind that at least he’ll actually have free time with no baseball practice to work around. Maybe he can actually make some friends, he thinks as he finally nods off. His cheek pressed against the window and a rising moon cresting over the horizon.  
\----  
When the three of them finally arrive in Santa Carla, the self-proclaimed “Murder Capital of the World” welcomes them with a parade of California’s weirdest. The rat kissing and neon hair are quickly forgotten when they finally pull into Grandpa Emerson’s driveway. The geezer sure wastes no time when it comes to letting them know he had a few screws loose. Even if playing possum on the porch didn’t drive that point home for them the ed gein decor sure did. They get the grand tour of the whole castle, and Michael is eager to drop his barbell and bags in the room that smells the least like boiled bones and formaldehyde.

“Dibs.”

“No fair, asshole.”

“I’m happy to trade you. Just gotta move my weights.” Michael chimes as he falls back on the bed. Sam fails to lift a hundred pounds of cold iron a single inch off the floor.

“Shouldn’t have ducked out of gym class so much, stringbean.” He ruffles Sam’s hair, grinning as he’s shot daggers. “But hey I think the room over grandpa’s chopshop has a better view anyway. Enjoy”

“You’re gonna regret this, asshole, just you wait.” Sam huffs stomping down the hall.

\-------

“Sam can you please go grab a jacket.”

“What? It’s like eighty degrees?”

“It’ll get colder later, honey, just go get one, ok?” There’s an annoyed groan, but he trudges back to the house without any further fight. The second Sam disappears into the house she leans over the center console to pull Michael into a hug

“I just wanted to say thank you for being so mature about all this Michael.” She says, he feels his stomach twist with guilt. “You’ve really been stepping up to the plate, and I know Sam really appreciates having his big brother at a time like this.”

There’s another beat before she draws back; her hand stays tightly clasped over his. The venomous jabs about baseball or college he’d been clinging to die, leaving him with a hollow feeling and a bitter taste in the back of his throat.

“Honey I love you, and I’m truly sorry things have been so tough, but I want you to know it means so much to me that you’re looking out for him and making sure he knows this isn’t his fault. I don’t know what we’d do without you.” Her eyes go glassy. Michael manages a tight-lipped smile as he squeezes her hand in return.

“You don’t have to thank me, mom.” His voice comes out a little more pleading than it should, but she just shakes her head.

“Well, I want to. You’re growing up to be a fine young man and I’m proud of you.” It’s palpable relief when Sam finally wrenches the car door open, a windbreaker slung over his shoulder.

Michael flips on the radio up and sends a silent prayer of thanks when Jim Morrison’s voice fills the cab. His mom is shooting him warm smiles while he tunelessly echoes Light My Fire, and it does the job of making him feel guilty the entire way down the hill.

Lucy drops them off in front of the tilt a whirl. She shoves a few crumpled bills into Mike’s hand and drives off before he has time to protest shouting “meet me here at eleven” as she goes.

\-------------------------------------

The concert crowd melts back into the usual bustle of the boardwalk, and the two of them amble around looking for something interesting enough to burn the last hour or so before heading home. Michael’s eyes linger on the leather jackets hung in front of one store. The last of his circle k money feels like it's burning a hole in his pocket, but that’s something he knows he’d gotta hang onto for the inevitable emergencies.  
“Come on I think I saw a comic shop around here earlier,” Sam says around a mouthful of a corndog.

“No way am I goin in there.” He groans.

“Mikkkkeeee, please! You can’t expect me to live with no TV and no comics!”

“Do whatever you want, but I’m not gonna twiddle my thumbs while you spend an hour agonizing over which issue of spandex wonder to get.”

“Talk about Superman like that one more time and you better sleep with one eye open.” The threat comes out with a little more heat than it probably should.

Michael just snorts. “Just meet me over by the funnel cake stand or something when you’re done.”

“So what’s a big dumb jock like you gonna do instead?”

“Tch, I don’t know. Probably, ask around and see if anyplace is hiring.”

“Alright...well...don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone, ok.” Sam teases, swiveling two fingers back and forth between them

“Right back at you, nerd!”

The moment Sam slips out of sight the good-humored facade of the strong older brother crumbles away, and everything beneath it bubbles darkly to the surface. He knows he’s being stupid about all this. More than that he’s being fucking selfish. Everyone else is settling into things alright; it’s just him. The scrape and pop of his teeth grinding against each other drowns out the sounds of the boardwalk.  
None of them wanted to move here, but his bastard of a father didn’t really give them any choice. It’d actually started out as a really great night. He and Sam had just finished their last week of school, and they pooled their cash to spring for pizza as celebration. Dad was out, and they didn’t take that as the warning sign it was. He’d stumbled back home to a few dirty plates still on the counter and Sam dancing to Tears for Fears by himself. Mike had heard the slap on the way down the stairs and had made it to the kitchen a second after his mother had started screaming. A dark little voice was kind enough to remind him he’d never seen her get that upset when he got disciplined at Sam’s age. What a shame. If he was the one downstairs maybe he’d still be training for fall ball in Arizona.

  
Fuck that. It’s pointless to dance around with bullshit what if’s, now. They’re here now, and hopefully that means the next time he’ll have to deal with his old man is when he’s putting him in the ground. He imagines himself pissing on the bastard’s gravestone, and his lips can’t help but twitch into a smile. Now he gets to go about his days without looking over his shoulder, no more treading carefully in his own home. Yeah, maybe this is a good thing. He can feel the fragile spark of hope kindling in his chest.

  
Unknown to him, battle lines have been drawn just up ahead. The leaders of two gangs square up just waiting for the violence in the air to finally crystalize. Michael mindlessly weaves through them painfully unaware of the bloodlust seething around. There's just enough time to meet eyes with the bleach blonde he’s brushing past when a meaty fist connects with Michael’s jaw. Because of course it does. Blood dribbles from his split lip onto the boardwalk, and he feels so much drain away with each drop. It’s like a bulb pops in his heads. He barely registers the taste of copper welling past his teeth as he throws back his head in laughter, red droplets sparkling against the stars.

“Fucking freak.” The skunk-haired asshole who’d decked him spits wrinkling his nose in disgust. He’s dimly aware of how much of a tweaker he must look like, cackling, but he can’t help it. Hollow tinny laughter shakes his body and he just lets his head roll lazily to the side and meets the surf nazi’s eyes. Fuck it.

His hands surge out to grab at the punk’s collar and throws him onto the boardwalk. Michael’s knee is on the other man’s chest and his right hook finds its mark. He feels bone crackle underneath his knuckles, and pride blooms in his chest at breaking the asshole’s nose in one hit. Then it’s like something dark takes over and he mindlessly lands another, and another, and another. He’d scrummed with assholes before, but those brief clashes were more shoving and posturing than actually trading blows. This was different. This was release.

He was blind to the fight boiling around him. The two wild blonds echoing his crazed laughter as they landed blows. The tall brunette smirking as he held a surfnazi in a headlock. And a paper pale blond, all in black, watching Michael land frenzied blows one after another, enraptured. But then there’s a nightstick pressing into Michael’s windpipe.

Security half-chokes him when he’s wrestled him up off the bloodied punk. He’s still dazed, and the confusion only lifts when he sees Sam gawking at him from the crowd. Shit.

“Off my boardwalk. All of you, now.” Security shouts into his ear, and his ears are still ringing when he’s roughly shoved towards one of the groups. He only avoids toppling over completely when a blond in black catches his elbow.

“I’m not-“ He’s cut off.

“You’ve got two minutes. If I catch any of you here I won’t hesitate to get the authorities involved.” The guard jabs the baton into his chest for emphasis, each press forcing Michael’s unsteady feet back. The hand at his arm never leaves and refuses to let him stumble.

“Fuck.” Michael curses scrubbing his fists at his temples.

“Sorry about that.” The guy leading him away drawls, it’s the bleach blond from earlier.

“Man, you were awesome back there.” Another blond. This one in a mesh shirt throws an arm around his neck.

A brunette slides behind them.“Don’t let yourself get too worked up about that. New guards are always blowhards.

“Yeah don’t worry!” A shorter blond pipes up as he shoves the guy in the mesh shirt. “He’ll get knocked down a peg soon enough. Bet you’ll never even see him again.”

Why were they treating him like he was one of them? Fuck, he didn’t have time for this. Sam saw him acting like a psycho-no way could he let him tell mom.

“Look, I’m sorry, but you’ve got me pegged wrong.” Mike spits, wrenching the bleach blond’s hand away. “I don’t know what that was back there, but I’m not like that. Not even close”

He doesn’t look angry or insulted. If anything he seems bemused by Michael’s attempt to deny he wasn’t having the time of his life wailing on a complete stranger.

”Whatever you say, pal.” He sounded so smug, but Michael can’t help but notice how his eyes roved over him, appraising every cut and bruise. “...the fact remains you took a punch that had my name on it so we’ve got no choice but to return the favor.”

The other three exchange eager glances and Michael becomes acutely aware they’re pretty far from the boardwalk, far enough for no one to hear him. The tension gathered in the air snaps as the bleach-blond claps a hand on his shoulder and shoots him an easy smile. “You look like you could use a beer. Why don’t we get you cleaned up back at our place.”

What the hell is this guy’s deal?

“I told you you’ve got the wrong idea.” He tries to put as much finality as he can this time.

“Later then…” He says with a smirk, and motions for the others to follow with a twitch of a gloved hand.

“Catcha round, bud!” The short one tosses back with a lazy salute.

Michael hurries to make his way back towards the lights of the boardwalk, hoping beyond hope he can somehow beat Sam to mom. He turns a quick look behind him to make sure they aren’t following him or anything, but there’s no one there. A cold, wind heavy with the scent of tobacco blows past him, and Michael can’t help but shiver.


	2. Scolding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael deals with some fallout, David is a little hasty, and Grandpa gets the worm

He blows it of course. He tries to jump the railing by the funhouse, only to get stared down by the same commando wannabe. Trying to outrun him isn’t worth the risk of getting up close and personal with his nightstick again so he opts to head for the road praying that he can meet his mom before she picks up Sam. He wracks his brain for some bullshit excuse that could possibly explain why he’s covered in blood and ditched his little brother in an unfamiliar town late at night. Would it even matter if Sam just rats him out the second he gets in the car? He has to hope his brother isn’t that stupid. Telling mom he had beaten someone to a pulp after she'd just gone out of her way to make sure he knew how proud she was of him...god...that could shatter her. 

“Fuuuckk!” He screams into the night. For a second, he thinks he hears voices laughing in the foggy distance, but the sound quickly bleeds into the growl of an approaching car as the Toyota's headlights cut through the mist.

“Michael!” His mom’s voice is piercing even from a distance. She sounds breathless, like she’s been crying. He keeps his head down as he shuffles to the car but as he reaches for the handle to the front seat he’s met with anxious blue eyes.  _ Sam. You didn’t… _

He waits until he’s in the back of the car to try and defend himself. “I’m sorry, mom, I-”

“Let’s talk about this when we get home.” The words come out tight, her hands wring at the steering wheel. Well, he’s officially ruined it then. 

The trip up the hill feels infinitely longer this time, the silence punctuated by the sound of Sam’s fingers drumming against the dash. Michael catches his reflection in the rearview a couple times when a light pole swings overhead. There’s a bruise blooming at the corner of his mouth, blood steaks trail from his lips and onto his chin-he looks like a fucking maniac. Finally, the Emerson place comes into view and they roll to a stop in front of Gramp’s menagerie of lawn ornaments. Nanook is the only one at the door to greet them. It’s a small comfort to not worry about a geriatric stranger witnessing the emotional flogging his mom has in store for him.

“Mike, what happened? ‘Roids finally fry your brain?” Sam phrases it like one of his usual piss poor attempts at levity, but his voice is high and thin. He’s half clutching at Nanook as he ruffles his ears. After so many years, Michael has no trouble sussing out what he means ‘ _ Please, don’t hate me I was scared and didn’t know what else to do.’  _

“Don’t worry about it Sammy.” He tries to give his best reassuring smile, by the look on Sam’s face it seems like it came off as more of a wince. “You should head to bed, it’s late.” 

He doesn’t need any convincing. “Night Mom.”

Michael listens to his brother's hurried retreat and makes sure he hears the door slam behind him before he takes a steadying breath and follows his mom into the kitchen. She’s waiting by the sink for the water to get hot and waves him over to sit. He fidgets mindlessly while she wrings out a rag. He’s got just enough presence of mind to hide his bruised knuckles under the table before she finally collapses into the chair next to his.

“Sam, told me he saw you really hurt another boy tonight, is that true.” She dabs at his cheek lightly. 

“I got into a fight, but I didn’t start it.”

“Michael…” She says it softly, but disappointment twists the edges of his name.

“Some guy hit me in the face, and I hit him back. That’s all that happened.” He tries to hold up a front-tries to assure himself this somehow isn’t all his fault. 

She gingerly raises his hand, still tucked under the table, so it’s eye level for both of them. The sight instantly makes his stomach twist with shame knowing the blood speckling the raw skin isn’t his own. He stares at his knuckles, and all he can remember is the sound of his own laughter, iron on his tongue, and the thrill of having a stranger at his mercy.

“I’m not going to say you shouldn’t defend yourself, Michael.” Their eyes meet over his hand. “But I wish you had walked away when you could.”

“I need you to know there’s always another option.” She trails a thumb over his cheek before brushing a lock of hair behind his ear. 

“I’m sorry mom.” His voice is so small, and it seems to put his mother at ease. Like it's some kind of reassurance that this is incident is just an aberration-that her little boy is still with her.

“I know you are, honey.” She moves to rewet the towel when a hacking cough announces they’re no longer alone. Grandpa saddles up to the kitchen counter a cloud of acrid vapors practically rolling off the tails of his bathrobe.

“What happened to you?” He chimes as he pulls a root beer from the fridge, popping the cap off on the edge of the counter.

“Got punched by some jerk at the boardwalk.” He grits out. “Fought back.”

There’s a contemplative grunt as he takes a long swig from his soda. “Wouldn’t advise scrappin’ with folks around here. Lucky you made it back.”

“I wasn’t going around looking for trouble.” He spits defensively.

“I know, but you gotta learn that in Santa Carla trouble sure does have a way of finding you if you’re not careful.” He grumbles. He pockets a fistful of oreos, and wishes them a good night before he disappears back into his little chamber of horrors. Michael doesn't dwell much on his Grandpa's words. He does his best to suffer through his mother's ministrations, and offers well-timed reassurances until he is finally able to crawl into his bed. He's too exhausted to get his frustration out in the usual ways, instead he passes into blissful unconsciousness before he can even get his jeans all the way off.

\--------

No one could ever accuse David of being patient. When he let the boys know he was going out, Dwayne was especially quick to tear away from his meal to tease him over just how quickly “later” had come. Paul and Marko were too excited with the idea of a new brother to risk the punishment that always came from making a joke at their pack leader’s expense. They’d made a big show of sulking after David had let the new guy turn them down, and he honestly couldn’t blame them too much especially after their last attempt at an addition to the crew had been such a letdown. Speaking of which...there she was huddled by the mouth of the cave, taking gulping breaths of the salt soaked air to try and muffle the sweet scent of blood that was no doubt screaming at her. She’d made it another week without giving in, and whatever admiration David might’ve felt for her conviction is totally drowned out by the annoyance that he’s allowed this to go on for so long.

“You missed quite the show tonight, Star.” He leers

“Go away, David.” She snaps, eyes fixed on the horizon. 

He clicks his tongue in feigned hurt. “And to think..I was almost going to give you a little treat before I left.” 

He pulls the jeweled bottle out from under his coat, and Star’s eyes burn gold. She reaches for it, her hands halfway shifting into claws, but her movements are slow. David easily holds it away from the starved halfling with an impassive look.

“Please,” She pleads through tight lips, failing to conceal the newfound fangs. David swings the bottle between his fingers, and lets himself relish the desperation on her face before he delivers his ultimatum. 

“This is the last of it, Star. I’m giving you one more week to get with the program. Otherwise...well we’ll be making some  _ other _ arrangements for you.” He lets the bottle slip from his fingers, into her shaking palms. It takes a few swigs to lift her bloodhaze enough to digest his threat, but when it does she glares at him, indignant as ever. 

He calls the winds to him just as she opened her mouth to argue, and takes to the sky with a smirk. There are much better things for him to be doing than listening to another attempt to appeal to his long-dead humanity. Sunrise was hours away and tracking this guy down over such a large distance could be a challenge, well it would be if he didn’t already have a little help. He was only able to swipe a drop or two of his blood when they were being kicked off the boardwalk, but that was plenty enough for him. Floating just above the extinguished lights of the ferris wheel, David brings the back of his glove to his nose. Behind the iron richness he susses out honey, pepper, and the faintest hint of gasoline...there was no doubt in his mind this one was special. Wading through the fetid stench of Santa Carla, he picks out the same feral sweetness clinging to a north wind. 

“Found you,” David grins, dragging his tongue along the back of his glove. Even stale, it’s just as sweet as he’d hoped. Following the thread of the stranger’s scent, the town below melts away into scruffy, pine choked hills until he’s perched outside his window. When he finally allows the winds to disperse, David’s greeted by a placid and all too mortal heartbeat. Lucky him, sounds like he’s decided to turn in early. He’s annoyed to learn someone had taken the trouble of trying to ward the place _.  _ If the oil were fresher or if he were younger the whole night could’ve been spoiled. As it is though, he just has to shake off a wave of nausea before he creeps up to the teen’s bedside. 

He chuckles to himself. This guy’s quite the looker, even unconscious and bruised to hell. In the moonlight, the planes of his face appear softer. Curls David remembers burning like copper under the boardwalk’s lights now look black splayed over his furrowed brow . _ What’s got him so worried even in his sleep? _ Gingerly, David brushes at the boundaries of his mind, willing it to open for him. Whatever needling doubt he might’ve had about the fight being a fluke, the product of a drugged up haze, is put to rest. 

There’s that killer’s instinct, the same vicious nature that David’s become so familiar with, in himself and all of his boys, is in him too. It’s restrained, held down by feelings of regret, shame and so much obligation. But it’s ingrained in him. Part of him-like a bloody seam peaking through sand. He’s so tempted to rip it out, turn him here and now. Instead, he chooses to draw on his slim well of patience and just stoaks whatever curiosity he has about him and the boys. He’ll seek them out when the time is right, and they’ll get to know each other properly.

“Until next time,” David whispers, tucking a curl behind the teen’s ear. He stirs slightly, craning his neck with a whimper. It’s enough to put a fresh smile on his face as he flies back to the hotel. 

\-------

It’s customary in the Emerson household to have pancakes after a bad night. Michael remembers countless instances peppered throughout his childhood where he’d fallen asleep to the muffled sound of his parents screaming at eachother and woken up to the smell of warm syrup and cooking batter. His mom’s apologetic eyes would meet his over a short stack that was always misshapen. He stumbles out of bed with the bitter thought that this would be the first time he’s had to make them because of something he’s done. He has to walk his bike a good distance down the road to make absolutely sure the engine didn’t give him away. 

Thirty minutes later, he coasts back with two bags of groceries courtesy of the last of his circle K money. He chickened out and bought bisquick, since he’s confident he doesn’t have the skill to do it from scratch. He grabbed some oranges though, hoping that it’d even things out and that even he couldn’t mess up squeezing OJ. There’d been some thought going into all this, so it’s kind of a bummer when he makes his way into the kitchen only to find Grandpa coffee in hand, eggs frying on the stove.

“Mornin’, Michael.” 

He crams his frustration behind a tight-lipped smile, and lets the bags sag onto the countertop. “Heya Gramps, early riser?”

“Yup,” he takes a swig of coffee, smacking his lips. “when you get up there in years you find it comes hand and hand with the wrinkles.”

“I’ll be sure to remember that.” He says, quickly tucking the groceries into the pantry. He’s soured on the idea of apology pancakes if they’re gonna be a side dish, so time for plan B. Michael shovels some runny eggs into his mouth and drains a coup of burnt coffee, and plucks his keys from the fruit bowl. 

“Don’t let mom know just yet, but I’m gonna go see if I can find some work in town.”

“Good on you.” He says with a nod. “Good luck, and keep it legal if you can help it.”

"I'll try." He shoots the old man a salute, and rushes back to his bike. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya sorry this is a little later than I anticipated. My laptop unfortunately broke. I had a lot of fun writing this though and I'm looking forward to the next chapter as well. Again sorry for any mistakes this will probably be edited as I go. Comments are fiercely loved 
> 
> Songs for this chapter:  
> Kitchen Fork- Jack conte (Mikey parts)  
> Saccharine- Jazmin Bean(David part)


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